


Waffles and Things

by scheherazade



Series: New York, New York [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Villa, David Silva, November 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waffles and Things

**Author's Note:**

> Because [acchikocchi](archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi) made me. As usual.

His mobile starts ringing the minute he turns it back on, which makes Silva doubly glad that he's invested in a much better international data plan since the season began.

_wilshere's a joke_ , is the first message, followed by:

_settle this for me mate it don't make you international just knowing two words of police_

_*polish_

_as in the language not what you scrub floors with_

_is it racist for the lot of them to be calling milner haaaaa-mes_

_is it racist for us to call you david like the english way?_

_genuinely asking you should tell us these things_

_have you seen gladiator? connie nielsen right babe that one_

_sorry russell crow's not bad himself if that's what you're into ;)_

_was that offensive?_

_you're probably on a flight and actually turned off your mobile haven't you proper upstanding citizen you are_

_let's go for nando's when you get back_

In Joe's defense, it is a long flight from London to Bogotá. Silva can't help but grin to himself, and texts back:

_you are fine. and yes i expect i will need good english fry food again after these days in the health land of america_

"Reading something funny?" says a voice.

Silva jumps, turning his phone face down and away from prying eyes on reflex — until his brain processes that 1) he recognizes the voice, and 2) said voice belongs to Villa, who has appeared at his side while he was texting. And who's smiling, a little quizzically perhaps, as Silva tucks the phone away in his jacket pocket.

"Hey," says Villa.

"Hey," says Silva. And, "Just reading some texts. You know."

"International texting rates are pretty criminal."

"You could try sending fewer photos in texts."

"Visuals are better, aren't they? Isn't that the whole point of that chat and snap thing?"

"Snapchat. And you don't have Snapchat."

"I don't see why I need another app to send photos."

"Because international data rates are criminal?"

"Maybe I should do something about that." Villa glances away, somewhere between avoiding eye contact and making sure he's not overheard. "Manchester's not that much worse than New York. I suppose."

There's a pause. Silva thinks about reaching over, because he could — he can — this is the whole point, and it's not like anyone's going to notice, one in the morning at a nearly empty airport terminal.

His phone rings again before he can actually take Villa's hand.

"Sorry," he says, even as he clamps down on the phone to turn off the sound. And sees the texts from Joe:

_yeah you know it_

and

_it's all part of the plan to keep you coming back for now. doing the most, we know new york's where your heart is_

 

* * *

 

Villa's apartment looks much the same as it did in August, only even more minimalistic than before. The tastefully hung crockery rack is missing several occupants, Silva notices, while Villa rummages around in the fridge for the ice he swore he'd put in before leaving for the airport.

"You've redecorated a bit."

"What?" Villa extracts his head from the freezer to frown at Silva. He looks where Silva's looking, and — grimaces. Maybe out of embarrassment. "Oh. Yeah. Well, no. There was a…misunderstanding."

"What kind of misunderstanding?"

"With a saucepan." Villa sticks his head back into the fridge. "And some frying pans."

"And basil?"

"And Morientes' fucking basil," Villa agrees vehemently. He finally emerges with a tray of ice, cracks the cubes into crystal tumblers. White wine follows. "Just because he has a villa with farmland or something, he thinks he should advise other people on horticulture."

Silva accepts the drink. "Does he also advise people on saucepans?"

Villa snorts. "Bet he'd like to. Doubt he does the cooking anyway. Raúl's more the type."

Villa wanders back to the living room. He's already sitting down on the sofa before he notices that Silva hasn't followed. Silva leans against the open doorframe, one socked foot on kitchen tile and the other toeing hardwood floor.

"You don't want to sit?" asks Villa.

"You know that they're not together," Silva says, "right?"

Ice clinks against crystal in both their hands.

"What do you mean?"

"Fernando left Real Madrid last year because he knew who was coming back."

"But he was here," Villa says. "He was in New York. With Raúl."

"I don't think he wanted to be." Silva walks over slowly. "The club asked him. Or maybe Raúl."

"You've been talking to him?"

"Raúl?"

"Morientes."

"A bit." Silva sits on the other end of the sofa. He steals a glance at Villa, but quickly looks away. "I knew you two still kept in touch, and he — I mean. It was earlier this year. Before, you know."

The frown creases Villa's brows as he parses this information. "What did he say about me?"

"Nothing, honestly." Silva catches the expression on Villa's face, looks away again and laughs to himself. "Honestly. He'd just say to ask you if I wanted to know. I thought he was being difficult, but. I guess he knew."

The silence this time feels different from the last.

Silva doesn't move away when Villa shifts closer. His hand is cold from the tumbler, but his grip is warm and sure. His hair tickles the side of Villa's neck.

"Sounds like I owe Morientes an apology."

Silva's breath skims warm across the cable-knit pattern of his sweater. "You might. He's probably not expecting it, though."

"I just assumed," Villa says, and can't quite find the right words for, _there are people who just seem like they belong together._

"You shouldn't do that," Silva mumbles against his shoulder. "You assume a lot."

"But some things are obvious."

"Like what?"

Silva looks up at him. The angle is a bit awkward, perhaps, and Villa has never been a man of words when actions could serve so much better. Silva meets him halfway, mouth warm and sweet.

"Like that," Villa says, between one breath and the next.

Silva brushes his thumb across the curve of his cheek, the contour of his ear, down his neck, and pulls him in again.

 

* * *

 

Morning arrives with a hint of frost, pale and grey in the windowpanes. The espresso maker hums and putters its way to life after some coaxing. Silva borrows a sweater, and Villa takes him out for an early brunch.

It's silly, maybe, but he gravitates toward Astoria for the way it's almost spelled like home.

They find a food truck named _Wafels and Dinges_ parked half a block from the rumbling overpass. The man who owns it doesn't recognize them, but is sufficiently delighted by the three words of Flemish that Silva recalls to give them free toppings along with a hearty good morning.

They walk and eat. The powdered sugar puffs with the least movement. An untimely gust of wind leaves a dusting of white across Silva's freckles. Villa brushes it off. Silva wrinkles his nose, and a laugh crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"You've got some on your sweater," Villa says absently.

Silva glances down at knit wool speckled with sugar. "It's your sweater anyway."

And Villa doesn't even think, because it feels so natural to say,

"Keep it."

The breeze tugs at the ends of his scarf. Silva's gaze doesn't waver from his.

"I've heard New York winters get pretty bad," Silva says.

Which is true. But. "Same for Manchester, isn't it?"

"Are you coming to Manchester?"

Villa shrugs, squints at the wintery sun peeping just over the edges of buildings. "If that's all right with you." A thought occurs to him. "I mean, for the off season. Not, you know. I'm not living somewhere that cold for the rest of my life."

When he looks up, Silva is smiling at him.

"Okay," he says.

"...Yeah?"

"Mm." Silva reaches over and adjusts Villa's scarf for him. "Why live in Manchester when we could go back to Spain, right?"

Villa lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Right."

Silva smiles at him again. "Good."

It's not until a few minutes later that he realizes his face is starting to hurt a little, both from the cold and how hard he's smiling. Silva's hand slips into his as they walk to the train station. He lets himself gravitate closer, until they're shoulder to shoulder, steps in sync.

And no, he thinks. No point at all, spending the winter in New York, when home is calling your name.


End file.
